


Ambrosia

by astxrwar



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Authority Figures, F/F, F/M, Lingerie, M/M, Multi, tags and characters will be added as the portfolio grows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2018-12-10 00:44:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11680476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astxrwar/pseuds/astxrwar
Summary: Short pieces of intimacy with characters. Requests can be sent to my tumblr: astxrwar.tumblr.com.Most Recent: Frank Castle





	1. Chapter 1

(Erik has always loved pretty things.)

“What is this?”

Erik’s voice is gravelly, practically a growl, honey-sweet and impossibly low-- he had been aiming for something a little more neutral, something that didn’t betray his own desires so obviously, but that had failed. 

He just sounds  _ hungry. _

The girl in his bed stretches, back arching up, up,  _ up,  _ and Erik rakes a dark gaze over her body-- she’s wearing a gossamer-soft black camisole and not much else, there’s lace underneath and the beginnings of a pair of sheer thigh-high stockings peeking out from where her legs are covered by his bedsheet.

He can’t see much.

He doesn’t need to. He knows what’s waiting for him.    
And that knowledge--

It’s  _ alluring. _

“Present for you,” she says, breathless and so desperately seeking his approval that Erik can’t help but move closer with a laugh that sounds disbelieving and a little strangled. It’s for  _ him.  _ This is for  _ him.  _ “Do you like it?”

Erik sits down beside her, sheets rustling and bedspring creaking beneath his weight. He’s maintained his control over the situation just barely, but he can feel it slipping away, dissolving into nothing, his throat is dry and his pulse is racing and his cock is hard and  _ fuck,  _ what is she  _ doing  _ to him--

He reaches out. Traces her bottom lip with his fingers. Almost immediately, her little pink tongue flashes out, laves over the pads of his fingers, sucking the digits into her mouth because she  _ knows  _ by now exactly what that would do to him. He’s predictable, he thinks distantly, as his breath catches, followed immediately by a low,  _ wrecked  _ groan that rumbles somewhere in his throat. He moves his hand down, over the thin layer of silk covering her body, traces the lines of her bra through the fabric and mutters something that’s probably a curse.

“Let me see,” he murmurs, accent noticeably thicker.

Her smile is coy, eyes wide and playful and not-quite-innocent. 

She sits up. The camisole comes off so slowly it’s almost painful. He wouldn’t expect anything less.

The matching set of lingerie is red-- a deep, burgundy red-- and he really can’t breathe now, can’t  _ think,  _ his eyes are roaming over every inch of her body like he wants to memorize it--

The bra is lace, thin and translucent, leaving so little to the imagination and clinging to the curve of her breasts in a way that makes Erik want to touch her, makes him want to drag his mouth down over her chest and press wet, open-mouthed kisses to her skin through the sheer fabric. He’s got a fucking  _ soft spot  _ for pretty things, and,  _ god,  _ she’s gorgeous like this, all dressed up. 

“You look  _ lovely, _ ” he murmurs, the words warm and syrup-sweet, and he doesn’t miss the way her thighs press together at the sound. Her underwear are satin, sleek and soft, lined in lace with a pretty little  _ bow  _ at the top, and he thinks about pulling them off with his teeth as he runs his fingers down over her. He plays with the garter belt, lacy and delicate, strokes over the little straps of elastic attached to the top of her stockings with something close to reverence.

“This is all for me?” He asks, and the words drip like honey as he rubs his fingers over the front of her panties, feels her  _ tremble  _ as his touch turns greedy, moving across her thighs and beneath her underwear.

“Mhm,” she mumbles breathlessly, and Erik hums, a soft, pleased sound. 

“Take it off.”

She hesitates. Blinks up at him. “Do you-- do you not like it?”

His answering laugh is quiet. “I do,” he says, and for his part, he manages to keep his voice perfectly neutral as he says, “But I want to  _ fuck _ you, darling, and I won’t risk ruining it.”

His hand is resting on her thigh, thumb rubbing small circles against her skin, and he almost,  _ almost  _ smiles at the way her muscles tremble in response.

“Take it off,” he says, again, voice low and suggestive and his corresponding smile just shy of predatory, “I’ll watch.”


	2. Frank Castle + shower sex

You wake up to the sound of water running.

(Three weeks. He’s been gone three weeks.)

You stumble out of bed, too tired to form a truly coherent thought as you walk, barefoot, to the bathroom, squinting up at the harsh fluorescent ceiling light through a haze of steam. 

Frank’s obscured by the frosted shower door, nothing but a shadowy silhouette through the blue-tinted glass. You wonder if this is real, because it doesn’t feel real— it’s 2 AM and his blurry outline keeps flickering in and out of focus as if your eyes aren’t sure that he’s even there at all.

“Hey,” you say softly,  _ cautiously,  _ voice rasping and thick with sleep. Your throat feels tight and your chest hurts as your eyes focus blankly on the pile of clothes next to the bath mat. The fabric is soaked through. You hope, a little frantically, that it’s just water.

Frank slides open the door and the edge of it clatters against the tile wall, the sound abrupt and nearly violent in the otherwise quiet room.

“What the  _ fuck.” _

There’s blood.  _ Fresh  _ blood. His hair is streaked with it, hands and chest smeared in dark red, the white porcelain floor of the tub stained pink from what little of it the water has managed to wash away. 

Your gasp is audible, shocked and desperate, and the lump in your throat swells with fear and anxiety and a helpless sort of despair as you step into the shower to close the distance between the two of you, hands roving over his shoulders and arms. You’re hoping,  _ desperately,  _ that it isn’t as bad as it looks, that Frank’s fucking crazy sense of worthlessness hasn’t managed to kill him for good this time—

“Hey— hey, hey, hey,” he’s saying, but the words don’t really register as your hands move down over his chest. You’re not listening— _ Can’t  _ listen—because you’re too high-strung, balancing delicately on the edge of what might be a full-blown panic attack,  _ fuck,  _ it’s too much at once and you feel like you’re  _ drowning— _

Frank grabs your wrists.

“It’s not mine,” he says. “I’m fine. I’m okay.”

_ It’s not mine. _

You’re shaking. Your hands stop moving, winding up on his shoulders with your fingers digging into his skin.

“(Name),” Frank whispers, voice rough and low and worshipful, like your name is a prayer, something holy, something worth saying with whatever gentleness he has left. “It’s okay.”

“Frank,” you say, the same way, and then you kiss him. You kiss him  _ hard,  _ because—

Because it’s easier than crying, and it’s easier than words, and because your entire body is  _ vibrating  _ for it, desperate to know that he’s still there.

He’s quick to respond, a groan rumbling up in his chest that reverberates against you like distant thunder as he threads the fingers of one steady hand through your hair. It’s not a gentle kiss, it’s hard and tense and  _ needy  _ in the way that your mouth opens underneath his and how he yanks your head to the side to slant his lips over yours.

“Your shirt,” he whispers, pulling back, and it takes a minute for your brain to catch up with you and process the words. You look down. Your nightshirt is soaked, you register distantly, clinging to your skin, and you huff out a soft laugh, yanking it up and over your head. You toss the drenched shirt out onto the bath mat along with your underwear, and slide the shower door shut. Frank watches you, takes the moment to rinse off the rest of the blood, and you look back at him through the curtain of mist and running water; his mouth is tight and his eyes are focused, irises blown out with an adoring sort of desire. 

“Come here,” he says, raspy and low and almost  _ sad  _ in a way that you don’t want to pay attention to. 

He kisses you  _ hard,  _ and then you don’t have to think about it.

Frank guides you back through the curtain of water with a hand tight on your hip until your spine is flush against the tile wall, pressing his hips into yours, cock already hard and hot against your belly. You sigh his name as he grinds up against you, and it’s pleading, even though you’re not really sure what it is that you’re asking for.

He knows, though, without you telling him— he always knows— and he moves a hand down between your legs, lets you grind into his palm with a needy sigh in between kisses. He works a finger inside of you and you bite out a curse, trying to spread your legs to give him access without slipping on the wet shower floor. Frank’s other hand is tight around your waist, holding you steady against the impossible width of his chest, and his presence is warm, raw, honest and all-consuming—

“Fuck,” he groans, pumping his fingers in, out, in, listening to the way your breath hitches minutely in time with the rhythm of his hand, “You’re fuckin’ beautiful, you know that?”

Your hand moves down to wrap around his dick and the words cut off in a choked-out groan— you don’t want him talking, not now, don’t want to hear the undercurrent of self-hatred lancing through the words. You know that he will always,  _ always  _ think of you as too good for him, and that hurts almost as much as a physical wound, sore and aching like a whole-body bruise.

“I love you,” you say, wishing that this were a fairy tale and that the words would somehow fix him, but it doesn’t and it won’t and the noise he makes in response is desperate, disbelieving—

“Don’t,” he whispers. “Not now.” 

His thumb rubs up over your clit, then, and whatever you were going to say dissolves into a burst of white static, comes out as a moan. He kisses you probably in part just to keep you from saying anything he doesn’t want to hear; he’s stubborn like that.  _ Stupid  _ like that.

“Turn around,” he says, guttural and deep, and you do it without thinking. It’s easier, like this, with his hands pressing hard into your hips, yanking you back against him. It’s easier when you can’t see his face and how the things you say get to him, mess with his head, but you still know they do. 

He leans forwards and you brace yourself against the wall and you can feel him, his cock pressed between your legs, and all you can think is finally,  _ finally.  _ The water from the showerhead is just a little too hot where it runs down the arch of your spine and the air is warm and humid to the point if being suffocating and the grout of the tile is leaving criss-crossed checkerboard marks in your forearms but it’s  _ fine.  _ It’s good. It’s  _ real. _

Frank pushes into you with one long thrust and groans against your neck, breath hot and sharp, and the sensation is like being consumed, like drowning and coming up for air at the same time as he thrusts into you again, harder, wrenching a moan from the back of your throat. Frank fucks you like he’s desperate for it and for once like he’s not afraid of breaking you, like he’s forgotten that everything he touches usually dies.

Except you. Never you.

You shove the back of your hand into your mouth to stop yourself from crying out, bite down against your knuckles almost hard enough to taste blood. He’s moving with a violence, the rocking rhythm of his hips  _ demanding,  _ sending bright flickers of pleasure-pain curling up the base of your spine, gathering somewhere below your stomach.

“I love you,” he groans, dropping his head against your upper back, hand clenching and unclenching where it rests against the wall. There’s irony in that— in how he won’t let you say it and in how he worships you anyways, to the point where it’s almost selfish. No, it  _ is  _ selfish, it is, and it’s not  _ fair. _

You rock back against him and the feeling of his cock being buried so deeply inside of you it almost  _ hurts  _ wrenches a jagged, half-formed moan out from your throat, something that almost could have been his name, but wasn’t. His hands are moving over your skin, across your back and your ass and your stomach and there’s a lingering heat in all the places he’s touched you, and the feeling is like a punch to the gut, sends a shiver wracking down your spine in between panted-out moans.

When Frank pulls out, pulls  _ away,  _ you feel the loss so fucking acutely that you nearly let out a frustrated moan. He spins you back around to face him and you’re confused for only a split second— less than that, really— before realizing what he had wanted.

He’d wanted to see you.

Somehow— impossibly— he hooks your legs up and gets you up off the ground, up against the wall. This time when his mouth finds yours it’s slower, not quite gentle, no, but— getting there. He catches your bottom lip in the pull of his mouth and the head of his cock bumps and slides against your clit and his fingers dig bruises into your hips in the few lingering seconds before he pushes into you again. The feeling of him as he fills you forces a soft moan out of your mouth, throat tightening with a strange mixture of desire and something bordering on sadness. 

“Look at me,” Frank murmurs, voice tinged with desperation. His cheeks are flushed with desire and restraint and his lips are raw and there are droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes, a bruise swelling carelessly across his cheekbone. You want to kiss him, want to be as close to him as your bodies will let you, nearly burning up for want of it. You don’t, though— his mouth is right there but you make no effort to move up to meet him as he fucks into you hard,  _ harder.  _ His breathing is ragged, hot and sharp and matches your own, and you let your body go with his, moving in tandem, clenching down around his cock. You can feel his hands now and they hurt, they hurt, but you can  _ feel  _ it, feel  _ him,  _ he’s right there, and the shaky noise that leaves your mouth is— glad, almost. You breathe in when he breathes out and you can feel that too, feel it in your chest and your lungs, hyper aware of every place where the two of you are connected. His hands, his mouth, his cock, the feeling of being taken and filled and the violent intimacy of it. the hurt and the pain and the worry of all these past few months is surging up; constant running and hiding and running again, nights spent awake wondering if he’ll even come back alive— It all surfaces, and for once you don’t force it back down again. You  _ feel  _ it.

“I love you,” you say, louder than before, looking at Frank and willing him to understand, half-desperate,  _ oh god please just know that I mean it— _

“Fuck,” he pants, and then he’s got his fingers rubbing up over your clit and the pleasure is immediate and white-hot and when you come, it’s with his name in your mouth.

Distantly, you can feel Frank as he tenses and trembles against you, biting back a groan. When you return to your senses and open your eyes, he’s got his head resting on your shoulder, silent, and your body aches like one big bruise. When he looks at you there’s something dark and needy in his eyes, in his expression, in the way that he wrenches you to his chest the second you find your footing.

“Gonna have a hell of a water bill,” he mumbles, resting his chin on your head.

“Don’t care,” you reply. Emotionally, you feel raw. Open.

“I love you,” Frank says.

When you say it back, he doesn’t argue with you. Not this time.

And for the moment, you think, that’s got to be good enough.


End file.
